


The Best Christmas Dinner

by Ripplestitchskein



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Gen, One Shot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 07:57:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5531753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ripplestitchskein/pseuds/Ripplestitchskein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A gift for tumblr user DriftNFly for the 2015 CS Secret Santa Gift Exchange. </p>
<p>A series of shared Christmas dinners over the course of Emma and Killian's lives mark the milestones of their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Christmas Dinner

The first Christmas dinner they share she is 15 years old picking holes into a red and green striped vinyl tablecloth in the dimly lit basement of the local YMCA. There are crafts, and handmade paper chain decorations, and an earnest but slightly pathetic volunteer “Santa” in an ill-fitting suit handing out presents from a metal folding chair.

It should feel sad and awkward, these wayward orphaned children clutching their generic gendered gifts as if they are precious treasures, but the basement is warm and the kids are excited and Emma likes the lights.

It’s much better than her  _ last _ Christmas at the Owen’s where the only gift she received was a bulk holiday card with a candy cane taped to it from her homeroom teacher, the same bulk holiday card each and every student received that day. 

 

Her Christmas dinner that night hadn’t been too dry turkey covered in lumpy gravy and sticky stuffing but a microwaved bowl of Spaghetti-o’s and one solitary chocolate covered cherry she had saved special from the pack she lifted from the drugstore.

He is there with his volunteer older brother, his accent surprising, and his expression sheepish, but he offers her a warm smile and his blue eyes twinkle, and Emma blushes immediately, looking away.  Their elbows brush as they eat with plastic forks off compartmentalized festive red plastic plates and drink slightly flat, watered down, soda from green Solo cups.   

His name is Killian she finds out, as he shuffles, embarrassed to the front when his name is called to collect his gift, and he is just slightly older than her. He avoids her gaze as he plops into his seat, and picks at the paper but doesn’t open the gift, frowning down at it through thick dark lashes instead.

 

Anger flares in her belly.

His clothes are decent and his brother is a volunteer not a “guest”, so obviously he doesn’t  _ need _ this gift he’s turning his nose up at, he has a family and no doubt a beautiful tree and stacks of presents waiting for him at home. 

She glares at him as she pushes away to collect her own gift and pointedly tears into the paper.

She recognizes it from the flyers, the number one choice for “Teen Artists” on the Toy Shop Gift Donation checklist: a friendship bracelet kit, the thread a rainbow of colors underneath the plastic film display window, the box covered in dozens of different inspirational examples, a smiling blonde pre-teen model in the corner proudly holding up a wrist full of lovely handcrafted bracelets.

It would be a pretty fun gift if she had any friends. As it stands she will need to think of what she could possibly do with ten skeins of brightly colored embroidery floss and “15 Fun Designs!”. 

“You could probably sell them at your school for a bit of cash,” the boy, Killian, says, as if he can read her mind.

 

She glares at him again and he offers her that same sheepish smile, running a hand through his hair. “That’s what I did with them last year.”

“So do you normally take presents you don’t need from the less fortunate to “sell them for a  ‘bit of cash’”?” he blinks at her in surprise, rearing back at the force of her vitriol.

“I just didn’t have any particular use for friendship bracelets,” he says carefully and picks at the paper of his gift again. 

“Well some of us are just happy to have  _ something _ ,” she turns away from him, clutching the box in her lap.

“Aye,” his voice is quiet and after a moment she hears the soft rustle of paper behind her.  She looks at him out of the corner of her eye under the curtain of her blonde hair, trying to appear like her interest is in the Popsicle stick reindeers being created by the younger children on his side of the room.

He is still frowning down at the gift, but it’s then she realizes that he wasn’t picking disinterestedly at the paper at all, but rather carefully separating the tape, taking tender care not to rip the wrapping, sliding his nails underneath the creases until the gift is revealed and the paper is flat on the table, practically pristine.

She looks at the scattered remnants of her own, hastily torn into, wrapping paper and flushes crimson.

He smiles, a small shy thing, at the gift, which was coincidentally number two on the flyer’s list of gifts for “Teen Artists”: a duct tape wallet kit complete with 5 gender neutral colors and a skull and crossbones stencil.

He looks exceedingly pleased with the present and Emma feels a rush of shame for jumping to conclusions.

“Well this looks promising,” he turns the box in his hands.

“Going to expand your product line?” she teases, a peace offering, an apology for her previous tone. 

 

He smiles wider, looking up at her under a fringe of too long, inky black, hair.

He motions with the box towards her own. 

 

“How about a trade, love? I’ll make you a top quality wallet to hold all your future hard earned bracelet money and in exchange you’ll let me be your first customer.”

Emma tucks her hair behind her ears, her cheeks flaming even redder as she pushes the last bit of her turkey dinner away.

“Deal.”

His name is Killian, his brother is Liam, and she learns that he does  _ not  _ have a huge Christmas tree and piles of presents waiting for him back home. 

 

He has a novelty Charlie Brown tree won at a Christmas raffle, two small stockings courtesy of the local dollar store, a job as a bagger at a grocers on nights and weekends, and his brother Liam working two jobs just to put food on the table and pay the rent on normal days, his brother who is too stubborn and proud to accept the handout and the free Christmas dinner without some sort of compensation through volunteerism in kind.

The wallet he makes her is turquoise with black and silver stripes, complete with a skull and crossbones embellishment on the front and it’s the nicest thing anyone has ever given her.

She slides a red and black friendship bracelet onto his wrist as they part ways, sad that it’s doubtful she’ll ever see him again.

 

She decides that night as she drifts off to sleep that it's probably the best Christmas dinner she's ever had.

____

The second Christmas dinner they share is cold and hastily shoveled into their mouths in the back kitchen of the Meals on Wheels donation center, where Emma is both trying to earn as many volunteer hours as possible to round out her college application, and simultaneously avoid the slightly lecherous gaze of her most recent foster “father”.

The longer the hours she works and volunteers after school, the greater chance the man is already asleep or gone to work when she makes her way into the small townhouse she shares with him and his oblivious, but kind hearted, wife. It also keeps her social worker and guidance counselors off her back, which she’ll call a bonus. 

If Killian is surprised to see her there, two years after their shared YMCA basement Christmas experience, he doesn’t let on, just continues spooning perfectly rounded ice scream scoop portions of mashed potatoes into takeout containers and humming along with the Christmas carols blasting over the Muzak system.

He has filled out a lot, the lanky early teen who had pushed gelatinous canned cranberry around a plastic plate with her just a few years ago is now a handsome and muscular young man, his hair still too long and falling into his eyes under his Santa hat, curling around his collar, but his eyes are just as blue, his smile just as bright, and his nametag shows his name in a black scribble as he blinks at her in faint recognition and hums the final bit of “Carol of Bells”.

She hadn’t been sure it was him at first, but she had never met another Killian, and she doubted too many other people possessed an eyes and accent combination that devastating in this city, no matter how big it was.

Her own eyes flicker momentarily to his wrist and she feels stupid for the disappointment that wells up upon not seeing the twisted black and red strands of thread there. It’s been two years, even if he had worn the thing the random girl gave him two Christmases ago for a bit afterwards, it’s unlikely to have survived the passage of time.

She thinks of her wallet, tucked into the front pocket of her book bag, a little worn and fraying at the edges, but just as sturdy as it was when he originally handed it to her.

 

The head of the volunteer program, a one Miss Beau Peep, is a sturdy and no nonsense Ms. Trunchbull type figure, lording over her stainless steel domain and barking out orders. She seems to hate Emma on sight, throwing a hairnet at her and shouting for her to take over the gravy station, ranting about newbies holding up the whole production.

Emma is a bit peeved to see that Killian sports no such hairnet, the Santa hat his only concession to food safety, and apparently it is deemed good enough for sanitation purposes this holiday season.

 

Emma huffs a bit and shoves her mass of curls underneath the plastic, and takes her place next to him on the line.

They work nicely together, him scooping potatoes into the plastic containers, her ladling perfectly measured portions of gravy over the top before sliding the container down the counter for the next member of the assembly line. It’s pretty soothing, dipping the ladle into the vat of gravy, the schink schink noise of him opening and closing his scoop, and his pleasant voice humming along to The Twelve Days of Christmas.

“I see you didn’t strike it rich with your handmade bracelet venture,” he murmurs after what seems like days of mindless scoop, ladle, slide. “Or is this you slumming it with us commoners.”

“I wasn’t cut out for that particular cottage industry,” Emma admits, scraping the ladle on the side of the pot. “I think I made enough for a value meal, maybe.”

“Not much luck meself with the local billfold market,” he says all feigned disappointment and over dramatic pouting.

“I think you have a promising career ahead of you at Baskin Robbins though,” she motions to his uniformly rounded scoops. “I don't think I've ever seen such picture perfect potatoes.”

“Practice darling, practice,” he winks at her but his voice is world weary when he says, “And I  _ have _ been at this for hours.”

 

“So when  _ do _ we get a lunch break in this joint?” Emma shifts from one burning aching foot to the other, looking around the kitchen. She hasn't moved from her station for hours either, in fact no one has taken a break that she's noticed, and she hasn't seen their taskmaster once since she arrived.

 

“‘No lunch here lass, if you have to take a lunch we’ll have to dock it from your hours form and you can't eat on the property,” is what he says loud enough for the stuffing and processed turkey stations to hear, but after a moment he leans in closer, his breath ghosting over the shell of her ear.

 

“The Warlord should be heading out in fifteen minutes or so for the first delivery run, I'll give you the signal.”

 

Emma feels a little thrill go down her spine both from the anticipation of the unknown and his closeness, and she grins down at the metal gravy container.

Killian loudly announces his intent to go retrieve more potatoes from the back and slinks away, returning after a bit, potato-less, grinning slyly and winking at her from under the white fluffy trim of his hat.

  
  


Just as he promised, Beau Peep yells a warning over her shoulder a quarter of an hour later, with clear instructions to keep working straight through, letting Emma know she is now in charge of both gravy and stuffing, Killian turkey and potatoes, and the owners of those two stations, two large burly men who would look more at home as mob henchmen rather than holiday volunteers, are coming with her.

 

Killian murmurs he has named them Thing 1 and Thing 2, they have volunteered every day he has so far, they practically worship the ground Warlord Peep walks on, but he cannot for the life of him figure out why. 

 

“I just don't see how we’ll handle this additional level of responsibility,” she deadpans, grabbing the stuffing scoop in her other hand.

 

“Just don't put stuffing on my potatoes and we’ll get through this….Swan.” His eyes linger in her name tag, Emma hastily scrawled in black sharpie next to her best rendition of a tiny black swan. 

Beau Peep and her minions are gone less than five minutes before he is grabbing her hand in his warm, calloused one, and tugging her through the rows of stainless steel cabinets to the back of the kitchen.

 

The other, more relaxed, volunteers smile at them indulgently as they pass, but continue their work of of sorting and packing the assembled trays of food into Styrofoam coolers. It seems their effortless efficiency on the potato and gravy stations has paid dividends, for they are far further along than they need to be. 

 

Killian wrenches open the door to the large walk-in freezer, yanking her inside after him and letting the door swing closed with a thunk and a hiss of air.

 

It's not as cold as she expected, but the air is dry in her throat and she shivers just the same.

 

“Is this the part where you murder me?” Emma looks at him warily. “Those are  _ turkey _ medallions we’re dishing up right?”

 

Killian rolls his eyes and reaches above her, stepping in close, almost chest to chest, as he uses the tips of his fingers to retrieve his hidden treasure from the top shelf.

 

He steps back, the loss of his warmth immediately noticeable in the chill of the cooler, and in each hand he cradles two, still steaming, trays of Christmas fare, black plastic forks peeking out from under the lids.

 

“God bless us, everyone,” he proudly hands her the tray, still warm on the bottom from where he recently microwaved it, thick trails of vapor rising into the air. It chases the chill from her fingers and she clutches the tray harder to her chest to absorb some of the warmth.

 

“We aren't depriving some impoverished elderly people of their Christmas dinners are we?” She eyes her tray speculatively, her mouth already watering in anticipation. Her sad breakfast of blueberry Poptart and leftover lukewarm coffee is a distant memory now and dinner is always a hit or miss situation. 

 

“‘Course not, that would be bad form in the extreme,” Killian takes a place next to her, their sides pressed together, bottoms resting on on the edge of a lower shelf, feet kicked out in front of them. 

 

“The meals are counted and handed out based on a static distribution list for the area.” 

 

He talks a lot with his hands, or in this case his fork she notices, waving the utensil in the air like an orchestra conductor. “Around holiday times relatives come and scoop up their dear old Nana’s and Papa’s and they don't always call to tell us they won't be home to accept their special holiday meals.”

 

He takes a bite of overly processed turkey meat, motioning for her to dig in.

 

“There's a city ordinance or something that prevents the food from being redistributed. Technically, since it left the facility, we’re  _ supposed _ to destroy it, but I'm pretty sure Peep takes the extras in lieu of purchasing actual groceries. Just between us, she also nicks toilet paper from the custodial closet.” He waves his fork in the air dramatically. “I'm simply redistributing the wealth darling.” He pauses “The food wealth, not the loo rolls.”

 

Satisfied with his explanation and feeling better knowing that she won't be inviting any form of terrible karmic backlash, Emma happily digs in. The food has cooled rapidly in the colder environment, but it's still pretty good considering, and honestly, it's better than she was expecting this year.

 

“It seems like you volunteer here a lot,” Emma remarks after a moment. “It took me  _ months _ to get on the roster, I only got on because most people aren't available on Christmas Eve.”

 

“Is that your sly way of asking if I come here often, love?” Killian gives her a sideways glance, eyebrow raised in amusement.  

 

Emma rolls her eyes and pointedly takes a bite of her meal.

 

“My brother, Liam, you remember, is all about volunteering for this cause or that, especially around this time of year,” there is something in his expression that says there is a story there, but it's gone before Emma can press. “There’s this citizenship award at my school, and I'm top runner, just have to keep my hours up. I just think he’d really like it if I won.” Killian shuffles his feet back and forth on his perch, shooting her a fake, forced smile before his eyes dart away. 

  
  


“How’d you get these by her and heated up anyway?” Emma asks, feeling the desperate need to get back on safer ground.

  
  


“Pirate,” he waggles his eyebrows and takes a dramatic bite of his stuffing.

  
  


There are half frozen, perfectly portioned, slices of pumpkin pie as well, and large canisters of generic whipped cream, and he tells her a story about his friend Will doing whippets a few years back on the edge of some canal and almost drowning. 

 

It's the kind of idiotic teen delinquency that simultaneously makes her ache for solid friendships and be thankful she doesn't know anyone that dumb.

 

He punctuates his tale by squirting whipped cream into his open mouth and then motioning for her to open up to do the same. 

 

It's cold against her tongue, and overly sweet, but she smiles, reddening when his thumb reaches up, fingers lightly cupping her jaw, to brush a bit away from the corner of her mouth. 

 

She decides, staring shyly into his too blue eyes, that this definitely replaces that night in the YMCA basement as the best Christmas dinner she's ever had. 

  
  


The rest of her shift passes in a blur of scoop, ladle, slide, with shared secret smiles, and the barest brushes of fingers as he hands the trays to her one by one. The tips of his ears are red and elf-like, and his Santa hat is slightly crooked, but he's goofy and handsome and she likes him.

  
  


When their shift ends he awkwardly shuffles his feet next to her, scarf wrapped around his neck and his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, as he insists he wait for the bus with her.

 

Their legs are pressed together on the bench from hip to knee and on a whim she takes his cold hand in her own, their breath becoming clouds of steam in the frigid air, and he smiles, that same shy secret thing from the YMCA basement those years ago, and he looks down at his lap.

 

“I'm volunteering at the library the day after Christmas,” he scratches behind his ear with his free hand. “I'm sure Belle wouldn't mind if you wanted to help out. She'll fill out your hours form for you?”

  
  


Emma smiles and nods, squeezing his hand tighter as the bus squeals to a stop in front of them.

 

“I  _ do _ need more volunteer hours.”

  
  


That night she dreams of blue, blue, eyes and stolen kisses behind bookshelves, but Christmas brings the same thing it brings her every year: sadness and pain, a packed up suitcase and a long car trip with her stretched too thin social worker, and she never does make it to the library.

  
  


____

 

The next Christmas dinner they have is on the house, compliments of the chef.

  
  


The restaurant is one of those quirky, trendy places usually started by up and coming chefs with grand dreams and visions, and an obvious theme but not  _ themed,  _ and Emma kind of falls in love with it immediately.

 

The phrase “understated nautical” keeps circling around her head and she loves the sculptured driftwood candle holders at the center of each table, and the ship lanterns hanging throughout.

 

It's dark and cozy, the planked walls almost seeming to creak and groan under the pressure of an imaginary ocean, and she swears she can hear the lap of waves on the hull.

 

The lure of a dining  _ experience _ and a festive, but still fashionable, holiday meal is apparently what sold Walsh on the place initially and he surveys it with a mix of appreciation and smugness. 

 

The food is  _ good,  _ incredible even, and Emma finds herself making inappropriate noises over a starter she can't pronounce but can appreciate the “Frenchness” of. Picturesque little tartlets of deliciousness and small plates of oysters with champagne sauce, tiny little portions of flavor she  _ misses _ when they are gone. Even Walsh, consummate food snob that he is, finds little negative to comment on.

 

The food is so distractingly good that when the splash of icy cold liquid cascades over her shoulder and down, down, covering her chest and lap in a purple red liquid, all she can do it shriek in surprise and throw her chair back where it falls with a clatter to the ground. 

 

It is immediately forgotten in the ensuing chaos, the wine that now covers her front apparently a part of some larger altercation between a man seated at the table directly behind them and one of the kitchen staff, his chef’s whites covered in what looks to be the remainder of the table’s meal. 

 

Walsh is yelling next to her, and a woman shrieks over the clatter of crashing dishes, and Emma reaches automatically for her purse and subsequently her taser, instantly on her guard.

 

It proves quite unnecessary as the man from the kitchen picks up the offending patron bodily by the back of his navy suit jacket, and hauls him unceremoniously to the door, depositing him in the sidewalk in a sprawling mass of limbs with shouts of “bloody lunatic” and “restraining order” and “never see you in here again, mate.”

 

The hostess has fluttered over, cloth napkins and club soda in hand as she ineffectually tries to scrub the red wine out of the pale peach fabric of Emma’s dress. Walsh is still yelling, nonsense words and phrases Emma can't make out anymore because she is too focused on the man from the kitchen in front of her.

 

Or should she say chef. Head chef, if his attire is anything to go by. 

 

Or should she say Killian.

 

Just like before, there is a flash of immediate recognition in his eyes despite the years, his tongue pressing into the corner of his mouth as he slowly drags his eyes up her figure.

 

Emma finds her voice first, the hostess still trying to scrub away a spot on her shoulder.

 

“Seems your mashed potato skills came in handy after all.”

  
  
  


She should have said “owner” because apparently this establishment belongs to him, the nautical theme aligning perfectly with the teenage pirate who made skull and crossbones wallets from her youth. 

  
  


He immediately insists they join him at the chef’s table in the back, promising a complimentary dining experience for the trouble, and once again he is grabbing her hand in his warm, calloused one, and dragging her along to the kitchen. 

  
  


Walsh is appropriately cowed, accepting the free meal, and relishing in this enhanced  _ experience _ , not even questioning her familiarity with their chef. He asks a few questions, which Killian answers pleasantly enough, but it's obvious that Walsh is incidental, obsolete, as Killian only has eyes and attention for Emma.

  
  


It's almost surreal to see him, from the black bandana tied tightly over his hair, a tiny rebellious lock escaping from the front, to his winking smile as he pulls out her chair. Emma feels the excited beating of her heart and the twist of her gut in anticipation. Of what, she doesn't know, but something big is going to happen she is sure of it.

  
  


Dinner is definitely the  _ experience _ Walsh expected but unfortunately not for Walsh. 

  
  


The table is set for two, with Emma deliberately seated to face the action and an oblivious Walsh facing Emma. Killian smirks at her conspiratorially behind him as he backs away, a secret just for the two of them, and Emma has to look down to hide her answering grin.

  
  
  


Killian runs his kitchen with a stern but calm efficiency, definitely a man in his element, which Emma finds both fascinating and unbelievably attractive. He is like a ship’s Captain, calling out orders and getting his “Yes Chef!”’s back in return, navigating the line with a dancer’s grace. There is an obvious sharing of respect and an order to the chaos here that Emma can appreciate.

  
  


Everything also smells amazing, the turkey the best she's ever tasted, with rosemary and oyster dressing, the potato galette is divine and perfectly crusted, and occasionally he will saunter over with a little taste of this or that for them, mostly for Emma, to try.

 

His fingers cup her chin delicately as he slightly tips her head back, spoon in hand, instructing her to close her eyes as he feeds her something incredible she also can't pronounce. When he smiles, it lights up his face with pride when she nods vigorously in approval.

 

His hands brush her own as he informs her on the best order to eat the items he presents, long artist’s fingers drifting from one element to the next.

 

She can smell his cologne and the spices clinging to his skin from his work as he moves in and out of her space to describe dish after dish, his palm flat on her back, burning through the fabric of her dress, leaning over the table to paint the picture of each flavor and recipe in scintillating detail.

  
  


It is, quite frankly, mesmerizing, and more than a little sexy, and it is only when Walsh speaks up, with a comment or observation that Emma even remembers he’s there, which should be more alarming than it is, but watching Killian work, his smile bright and his eyes dancing with merriment just for her, is too distracting for her to think on it much.

  
  


It's hours later, while Walsh is getting the car, that Killian slips his card into her palm, taking his time in releasing her hand, dragging his fingers across her own and rocking back on his heels with a grin.

 

“Now Swan, don't be a stranger. You’ve already left me a heartbroken wretch of a boy once in my life.”

 

Emma smiles at him, more than a bit sadly, but he chucks her chin up with a wink, and the memories of exactly  _ why _ she left are forgotten.

 

“So what was the fight about anyway?” Emma asks, nudging him with her shoulder. 

 

He flushes red and rubs the back of his neck, and she knows instantly it's something ridiculous. He murmurs something under his breath. 

 

“Sorry I didn't quite catch that,” Emma exaggeratedly cups her hand around her ear. 

 

“I might have slept with his wife...a bit,” he says finally, kicking at the ground in embarrassment, the suave and self-assured Chef/Owner/Restauranteur  gone, replaced by the sheepish teenager she knew all too briefly, and Emma laughs.

 

It's not the best Christmas dinner she's had, but it was certainly the most interesting.

 

____

 

The next time they share Christmas dinner it barely counts.

 

He comes over unannounced with sub sandwiches in a slightly greasy paper bag, looking cozy and warm in his black pullover hoodie, his scruff longer and thicker in deference to the colder weather.

 

“I come bearing gifts of sustenance and terrible movies,” he says and pushes his way past her pajamaed form into her apartment, not bothering to wait for an invitation.

 

“Can we not do this?” Her voice is half whine and half moan but she moves to the couch to flop down next to him, nonetheless.

 

“We will,” and he is gentle but firm. “You’ve been like this for a week, Mary Margaret texted me that she was worried, so here I am.”

 

“It's just a breakup, I'll deal,” Emma mutters but accepts the sandwich from him with nothing more than a small pout. “I broke up with  _ him _ , remember?”

 

“Doesn't matter, he was a nice bloke and it's natural to grieve no matter how it ended, but now it's time to eat and watch terrible horror movies,” he busies himself cuing up the movie before coming back. “I insist. Now eat up, I almost took out a mother and her three children making sure I got the last two they had.” 

  
  


The sandwiches  _ are _ pretty incredible and worth the decimation of a small family: turkey, stuffing, and gravy with a cranberry orange relish on five grain hand baked bread that just screams Happy Holidays!, and Emma appreciates every single bite. 

 

She also appreciates the way his arm comes around her shoulders, drawing her down onto his chest, a kiss pressed firmly to her crown, a hand stroking her arm.

She doesn't want to tell him  _ why  _ she ended it with Graham. She doesn't want to tell him how being here with him just makes it worse, just reminds her of the real reason she's been wallowing in her own sadness.

 

She doesn't want to tell him, so she doesn't, she just enjoys his warmth and his scent and his terrible movies, and wishes things were different.

 

She's probably had better Christmas dinners but this is by far the most bittersweet.

 

____

  
  


The next Christmas dinner is a catered affair.

 

Ruby had insisted on a Christmas themed wedding, with dreams of a white faux fur cape and matching muff, imagining herself as an ethereal snow goddess, a vision in wintry white, with a sparkling diamond tiara and blood red nails.

 

She had demanded a horse and carriage, and red bows and ribbons on every surface, loud and ostentatious silver garland, and poinsettia flowers.

 

She was so awful with her wedding preparations Emma had taken to calling her the Abominable Snow Bride, dreading each late night phone call about Christmas cookie self service bars and gingerbread men decoration stations and ornament wedding favors.

  
  


Mulan, the “Complacent, Enabling Bride” was less than helpful during these fits.

  
  
  


Killian had been the obvious choice for caterer, his Christmas menu was famous city wide now, and he was a close personal friend of Emma’s, and thus was willing to handle the entire event for a steeply reduced fee as a “personal favor for some truly lovely lasses.” 

 

And Ruby liked him, which was a plus.

 

The problem, at least for Emma, lay in the “close personal friend” bit and the fact that when one caters an event, one cannot enjoy said event.

 

Which is how she came to find Killian giving stilted commands to his limited staff in the hotel bed and breakfast kitchen, hunched over the counter, carefully laying beautifully carved bits of turkey on artfully arranged roasted vegetables.

  
  


“Do I need to grab a scoop and get to work?” Emma teases from the doorway.

 

The look on his face is worth the extra two hours of hair and makeup she endured at Ruby’s insistence, and the tape holding her boobs and dress in place. 

 

A piece of turkey succumbs to gravity, sliding off the pile of vegetables, forgotten, while he tries to gather his wits.

 

“You look stunning, Swan.”  His voice a bit breathless and Emma feels her pulse quicken.

 

“And you look pissed,” she makes her way into the kitchen, frowning slightly at his obviously foul mood. “Pissed as in angry, not drunk, that is.”

 

“No worries Swan, m’fine,” he turns his attention back to the turkey, carefully putting it back in place. “You should go enjoy the party darling, visit with your friends on their happy day.”

 

“I  _ am _ seeing my friend,” Emma smiles at a harried and slightly sweaty Smee who rushes by her to put more completed plates out for service.

 

Killian gives her a small smile and abandons his turkey related task, wiping his hands clean before pressing one to the small of her back just under the skin exposing, cut out back of her dress, and steers her towards the door back to the reception area.

 

“Your  _ friend _ has work to do, is currently very behind, and you are far too lovely a distraction for me to do it.” He pauses. “Also Ruby will kill us if we delay service.”

 

Emma frowns up at him, pressing her palm on the door jamb to hold herself in place.

 

“Can you come out later?” She would normally cringe at the way her voice sounds, all desperate hope and need, but she's tired of all of it and she doesn't want to hide it anymore.

 

Killian smiles wider, his eyes moving slowly across her face as he takes her in, his fingers reaching up to tug on an errant curl from her elegant wedding updo.

  
  


“Save me a dance, love.”

  
  
  
  


Her lack of a plus one is ridiculously obvious and remarked on by no less than 5 people as she sips her too strong eggnog and contemplates making her gingerbread man anatomically correct with the provided tiny parchment packet of royal icing.

 

She wants to tell them the choice was deliberate. That she had intentionally come without a date. That finally, after years of, hopefully mutual feelings, the stars have aligned and the timing is finally right and Killian and her are finally single at the exact same time.

 

First she had Walsh while he marginally had Milah, when it didn't seem like he would get his head on right regarding Milah, Emma had started seeing Graham, at the tail end of Graham he’d met Tink. 

 

Then his restaurant was featured in a popular magazine and he was slammed with work, pulling 18 hour days and doing interviews on the weekends, and she had a few long out of town stints tracing some unruly skips that kept her away for weeks at a time, barely able to grab a beer with her friends much less begin dating one of them.

 

There was Mary Margaret’s baby shower and Ruby’s wedding planning and David’s awards banquet and it just never seemed to work out.

 

Until now.

  
  


But that's probably more information than they want to hear.

  
  


Tonight was it though, Emma was determined. She was single. He was single. Her caseload was light, he had been able to justify some additional staff with the increase in revenue. None of their friends had any upcoming major events. Everything was perfect.

 

Except that he was currently slaving away in a too small kitchen, using a blowtorch to perfectly crust tiny portions of potato gratin and yelling at Smee, while she gets increasingly drunk on creamy egg mixtures and spiced rum.

  
  
  
  


He's not free until hours later, after she has kicked off her too tall shoes and switched to coffee in an effort to sober herself up. Mulan and Ruby have left by that point, their group of slightly tipsy well wishers loudly caroling at them all the way to the waiting limo. 

 

He looks exhausted but pleased, appearing before her in a pilfered Santa hat and a weary smile. He sets two plates of leftovers on the table and comes around to stand in front of her, holding a hand out. 

 

She looks at it confused.

 

“What?”

 

“I believe you owe me a dance, love?” He raises an eyebrow at her, his fingers waggling. “Come on Swan, a promise is a promise.”

 

“But there's no music?” 

 

She places her hand in his own and looks over at the stage, the band has long since packed up and left, and the room is practically empty save for a few lingering guests chatting animatedly a few tables over, and the bartender, who is also packing up for the evening.

 

“‘Course there is,” he draws her in close, his chest pressed to hers, and gives her hand a squeeze, his other arm snaking around her waist. 

 

He presses his cheek to her temple, and after a moment he is humming Christmas carols into her hair as he begins to move them around the floor, her bare feet gliding over the cool wood.

 

Emma smiles into his shoulder, relaxing into his embrace and letting him guide her around the tables.

 

He's worked his way through most of the major favorites before Emma leans back, stopping them mid-sway.

 

“Swan?” His eyes search her face confused. 

 

Emma takes a deep breath and gives him a small, nervous smile before she is hauling him to her by the front of his shirt, pressing her lips to his own, asking a question he answers a moment later with his tongue on the seam of her mouth, and his hand in her hair.

 

There is nothing  _ friendly _ about this kiss, all open panting mouths and slick heat, and it is a fair number of minutes before they are pulled back to reality, a loud guffawing laugh from the other table of remaining guests jerking them out of their haze.

 

Their breaths are heavy, noses and foreheads still pressed together, lips tilted up in small revelatory smiles, and her hand still clutches his shirt front with an iron grip.

 

“It appears Christmas has come early,” his voice is slightly breathless again and awed, his words ghosting over her lips.

 

Emma smiles wider, tilting her mouth up towards him once more. 

 

“I could make a joke about unwrapping my present but such low hanging fruit is beneath me, a man must have standards Sw-” she cuts off whatever else he is going to say with an exasperated huff and her lips on his.

 

He hums Christmas carols into her mouth and later feeds her cold bits of leftover Christmas turkey and various finger foods by the warm glow of the  twinkling Christmas lights wrapped around each table.

 

She shows him her rather obscene gingerbread man and steals his stolen Santa hat, and makes inappropriate jokes about chimneys.

 

She decides that  _ this _ is the most perfect Christmas dinner she's ever had.

 

____

 

The next Christmas dinner is cooked in their brand new house, the papers signed just a week previous.

 

It had been a wonderful week of unpacking and merging their things, buying new, shared, stuff and it's one of the happiest weeks of her life so far.

 

She finds the red and black friendship bracelet tucked away in a small box of his things on the third day.

 

He discovers the duct tape wallet shortly after, slightly worn but still useable. He comes into the kitchen where she is unwrapping plates clutching it in one hand and wordlessly dips her into a kiss.

  
  
  


Emma decides that their first Christmas dinner will be cooked by her, wanting to try her unskilled hand at it, rather than letting Killian take all the credit.

 

The turkey is more than a bit dry and she forgets the dressing in a bowl in the fridge, but it's edible and there is lots of gravy to compensate.

 

Killian jokingly offers her a job in his restaurant if she wants it, but later, bending her over their kitchen island, distracted from his task of assembling their dessert, lips on her neck, he grudgingly admits it's probably bad for business.

 

“This one,” she thinks, “this one is the best.”

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
